


The Divine Radiance of the Iceman

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Fuck Or Die, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only he who is both cursed and pure of the touch of the sodomite may break the curse, and he must give of his purity in sacrifice to Dahag. Long live Dahag. Long live Dahag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Divine Radiance of the Iceman

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Generation Kill Porn Skirmish](http://getsome.oxoniensis.org/). Prompt: fuck or someone will die. Huge beta thanks to [](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/profile)[**alethialia**](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/) and [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Warning: It's 'fuck or die' fic, so this could be seen as dub-con. But, trust me, not really.

"You know, Brad, we've done some incredibly fucked-up shit in this war. Even before we invaded, shit was fucked up. We spent thousands of dollars on victors that any self-respecting armored regiment would laugh at, we spent weeks training for a mission that was scrubbed at the last second, we took on a member of the liberal intelligentsia without a second thought and have, at times, been retarded enough to hand him a fully-loaded weapon." Ray glanced back at Reporter. "No offense to your ability with a gun, Reporter. You did a damn good job of shooting that burned-out hunk of metal by the MSR last week. I'm sure all the other abandoned cars are now freaking terrified of you."

Brad didn't have to look back to know Reporter was grinning foolishly. "Shut up, Ray."

"That's just the idiotic stuff we did on our own recognizance. If I get into all the absolute goat-fucked stupidity that has been done as a result of direct orders from command—well, my tongue would probably collapse from overuse. And I prefer to save that kind of work for some kind of labor that's going to at least get somebody off a time or twenty. I'd work my tongue sore for pussy: sweet, glistening pussy. God, I miss pussy. The way it gets all creamy and soft the more you go down on it, the kind of noises girls make when they get so hot all you have to do is breath on their clits and they come again. That's what I want to wear myself out over, not the fucking ineptitude of command. And yet here I am, in buttfuck Iraq, with no pussy and several battalions of assholes."

"That's disgusting, Corporal. I can't believe you go down on girls—you've probably got all kinds of herpes and other gross things happening in your mouth," said Trombley.

"James, your wife must be a seriously unhappy woman. In fact, you can't be all that sexually satisfied yourself. Take it from me, a little tongue judiciously applied now and then will get you anything you want, from a blowjob to backdoor access."

"You fuck women in the ass? Ew."

"Highly eloquent, as always, BK! I'm sure you can do better than that, though. C'mon, tell me all the reasons you don't want to come in the back door and I'll tell you why they're stupid. You're missing out on one of the great sexual experiences of life."

"It's just gross. I don't have anything else to say, but just—ugh."

"Good," said Brad, before Ray could start educating Trombley on the virtues of fucking anal orifices and Trombley lost it and shot him in the head. "Then you can shut the fuck up. Ray, unless you have a fucking point, I suggest strongly that you follow suit."

Ray grinned at him. "Of course I have a point. You're just dying to hear it, too, which is why you didn't order me to shut up. And that's my point, actually."

"That I've become overly indulgent and soft in the head from years of being assaulted by your rapier-like wit?"

"That you're happy because we're on a real fucking recon mission for the first time since this war started. But even this is fucked up, because we had to bring Captain fucking America along."

"You have a point, Ray." He did, actually. This wasn't the dream mission, but operating in a two humvee team under the cover of night to recon hamlets where suspected Ba'ath party officials were holed up was about as good as it was going to get on this deployment. They'd even located the five of spades, a Ba'ath party regional command chairman. Brad thought Reporter might shit himself when they'd confirmed that's who was living in the barn they'd been sent to scope out. They hadn't done a snatch-and-grab: identification was enough for now, according to orders.

Now they were on their way home, a successful mission under their belt, even if they'd had to bring along one of the most incompetent officers Brad had ever had the displeasure of working with. At least the moron hadn't fucked anything up.

It boded well for the rest of the day, Brad thought, knowing he was tempting fate. They had about ten klicks left to drive, would return to base around zero dark thirty. He and Eric would write the After Action report together, something they hadn't had the chance to do since Afghanistan, and then Brad could rack out for an hour or two, since Bravo's current orders amounted to sitting around a wadi for a few days. He was too tired to slip away for a combat jack; it would be enough to lie in his grave and think about the LT issuing orders Brad had only heard in his fantasies, at least so far.

He kept his eyes on the side of the road, alert for any disturbances that could signal trouble, but doing his job was instinct at this point, and he let his conscious thoughts drift toward that pretty mouth. "Roll over and spread 'em, Colbert," Fick said, in Brad's mind. "I'm going to fuck that tight hole of yours, fuck it until you're open and loose, until you can't remember what it felt like not to have my cock inside you."

Brad had never taken it up the ass before, never let anyone stick so much as the tip of a finger inside him. His ex-fiancée had thought anal sex too disgusting to consider, and the various hookers and one-night stands he'd had in the years since had been plentiful, but Brad wasn't interested in letting some whore inside him in. And he didn't go home with women who looked like they might be both a good time and a good person. It was much easier to leave before dawn if you knew the chick wouldn't give a damn if you were there when she woke, would in fact prefer that you weren't.

But Fick—Nate—would do him right. Brad was assured of that. He thought of those long fingers opening his ass slowly, the look on his face intent, like fucking Brad was as important as learning the new map of their A-O. Nate had experience—Brad didn't know how he knew, call it gut instinct or intuition or whatever the fuck you wanted, but he wasn't wrong, was sure that Nate had fucked other men.

He might have to get himself off when they got back to camp, after all. Though it seemed that his plans were about to get fucked, as per the SOP, because Ray was slowing down. "Ray, what the fuck are we stopping for?"

"I don't fucking know," said Ray. "Captain America just gave the order and Kocher's following it, so if I don't stop we're going to end up in the back seat of their victor and given Trombley's aversion to ass fucking, stopping seemed the best course of action."

Trombley squawked, but Brad ignored him, lifting his M4 and flipping on his night scope. "Jesus Christ, he's fucking getting out of the victor."

Ray shook his head, listening to the radio. "Kocher says there's a some old hag lying on the berm beside the MSR and that heinous excuse for an officer thinks we should stop and offer her assistance. Fuck, I wouldn't even do that on the 4-05 at this hour, much less a combat zone."

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day," said Brad, watching as Captain America held out a hand to her. It might be a woman, but the figure was so heavily garbed in robes, it was hard to make a positive id. But she was taking Captain America's hand in hers and pressing something into it—and then there was a fucking flash, and everything went blindingly white for a minute.

"Holy shit," Ray yelled. "Hitman, Hitman, come in. Man down, I repeat, man down. Brad, shit, comms are fucking down."

Brad was already out of the victor, though, weapon at the ready. "Trombley, punch out five meters, help Kocher establish a perimeter. Walt, I need you down here. Reporter, don't you fucking move your ass." He didn't need to say anything to Ray, he was already doing his job, trying to raise comms.

He made his way to where Captain America was splayed on the berm, relieved that the officer was beginning to sit up. Just some kind of stun grenade, then, though fuck if that didn't mean the onset of some kind of ambush. They had to peel right the fuck now, and he put out a hand to help. "Sir, are you all right?"

McGraw looked at him, a weird, unfriendly smile on his face, and then said something in a strange language, his voice guttural. He reached out for Brad, something glowing in his hand and Brad backed away, but not fast enough. He didn't see the explosion this time, he felt it, the shock wave reverberating through the very marrow of his bones, and then the world went black.

*

Nate sat in the command vehicle and frowned at his map as though he could alter their sit-rep with his glare. Godfather's latest quest for glory and promotion had once again put First Recon twenty-four hours ahead of the rest of the American forces in Iraq, and they were deep into enemy territory without air support or even a fucking clue what lay ahead.

As if the situation weren't quite fucked enough, Bravo Company had been ordered to detach from the battalion and undertake a reconnaissance mission along the villages of the Tigris River, looking to roust out bad guys. Nate had been tempted to ask if they were supposed to knock on the front doors of the mud huts and hold up the playing cards next to people's likeness, but any rational objections would have resulted in Enci—Captain Schwetje looking at him like he was a lost cause and saying soulfully, 'Godfather needs bad guys, Nate.'

It would have been far too tempting to say, 'What, his complement of fucktard American officers wasn't enough, now he wanted matching Iraqis, too? Nate was trying to avoid court-martial, so he kept his mouth shut and executed the orders.

He should have listened to his instincts. Then they might not be in a wadi south of the river, no comms with battalion, thirty-five Marines against whatever enemy might be lurking in the bushes or crouched down on the banks of the river, their guns sighted on his men, while one of his teams went on a wild goose chase for _mujahidin_ with Captain Amer—McGraw leading them.

Nate wouldn't have trusted Dave with care of the parakeet his sophomore roommate had kept, the one who had shit all over Nate's paper on _The Odyssey_ a half-hour before it was due. But both Two and Three's best teams were out there, and Nate had absolute confidence in Brad and Eric's ability to keep their Marines alive.

Or he would be until the teams returned to base, at which point Nate would have all three of their asses for being ten minutes late and not calling in with an updated ETA and an explanation for their delay. It could just be another comms malfunction, even though they'd had a perfect connection until twenty-two minutes ago. Nate was assured of Ray's ability to conjure a radio signal out of an MRE wrapper and two pieces of det wire, unless there was some reason he couldn't—

Nate put the map down and took out his notepad. If a rescue mission were in order it would be up to him to plan it and there wouldn't be a lot of time to do so once a distress call came in. His radio crackled just then and he breathed a sigh of relief as Ray's tense voice echoed in his handset. "Hitman-Two, Hitman-Two. Bravo Two-One Alpha and Bravo Three-Two request permission to reenter lines."

"Permission granted, Echo-Four-Papa," Mike took the call, his normally lax tone taut with tension. Nate hadn't been the only one watching the clock."Interrogative: what's your status? Do you have casualties?"

There was a moment of radio silence that chilled Nate to the core. If they were all fine Ray would have just accused Mike being a mother hen and gone off about how he could at least lay golden eggs or some equally absurd shit. Mike would have told him to can it, and all would have been right with the world. Instead Ray, after that telling pause, said, "Three casualties. McGraw is conscious and mobile; Colbert and Hasser are alive but unconscious." His voice was even, steady—when Person sounded calm it meant that shit was so fucked up he couldn't even process it.

_Colbert and Hasser are alive but unconscious._ Jesus fucking Christ. Nate's heart did stop then, just for a second, before training kicked in and he was on the radio himself, calling for Doc, then calling the TLs to ensure that security stayed tight while they figured out the problem. He raced through frequencies, trying once again to raise comms with battalion, to no avail. He did manage to reach RCT-1's Shock Trauma Unit and had a cas-evac bird on standby.

By the time the victors pulled into the encampment, his Marines were standing on alert, ready to receive casualties.

Trombley was sitting in the front seat of Colbert's Humvee and that drove home like nothing else that this was real, that Brad was wounded. Nate had arranged the victors in their encampment in a circle, facing outwards so that they were covered from every angle, and Ray drove straight through into the middle of the circle, Redman following him, parking back-to-back.

The humvees had barely pulled to a stop when they were surrounded. Mike yelled orders and within a minute Walt and Brad were lifted out of the victors and laid down on tarps set in the space behind them.

"They're alive," Doc said, bending over them. Nate wanted to see for himself, had to hold himself back from going over there and putting his hand to their chests, his ear to their mouths, to feel their breath on his face. He couldn't help them medically, but he could sure as fuck find out what happened.

"Ray. Eric," he said brusquely. Marines moved quickly out of his way as he strode over to Two-One Alpha's victor. "Report, now. Where the fuck is Captain McGraw? Isn't he the third casualty?"

Ray was still sitting in the driver's seat, looking stunned. There was no time for Nate to coddle him right now, not with two Marines down and a third's status unknown. "Corporal Person. Pull your fucking head out of your ass right the fuck now and report," Nate snapped and Ray startled, blinking up at Nate.

"I—fuck."

"That is not helpful, Person. Where is Captain McGraw?"

"He's right here," said Eric. He came up to them with Dave in tow, Eric's hand wrapped firmly around the officer's wrist.

"Dave, what the fuck is going on? What happened to my marines?"

Dave looked at him, his expression different from any Nate had seen on him before. He didn't have that blank look of terror that Nate loathed, nor the cheerful mug that he'd worn before the invasion. He looked - calculating. Predatory? And when he opened his mouth—Nate gaped.

It was like a stranger was speaking through Dave. Literally. Nate grew up in the High Episcopalian church—he didn't believe in demonic possession. You'd have to believe in demons, to start, and Nate had seen enough evil in the hearts of men as he read history to know that gods and demons were projections, humanity attempting to justify its own twisted soul. And yet his fellow platoon commander was speaking in tongues: dark, heavy words. Menacing. And yet oddly familiar, words Nate might understand if he thought hard enough.

He didn't have time for this shit. He turned to Ray. "So he finally snapped. Why didn't you just say that Captain McGraw has finally cracked, instead of wasting my time with this sideshow?" He paused, tamping down the anger. It wasn't fair to take his concern out on Ray. "I repeat my original question: what the fuck happened to Colbert and Hasser?"

*

"He got out of his fucking victor because a woman was waving prayer beads at him?" Nate said incredulously. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

"No, sir." Eric shook his head. "Captain McGraw ordered Corporal Redmond to stop the victor along a deserted MSR, at 0422 hours, because there was an elderly Iraqi on the berm holding out a set of what appeared to be luminescent beads of the type used by the locals in prayer."

Eric's report was concise and thorough, with Person added details as necessary. Essentially, Nate's fellow officer had been distracted by a shiny bauble he could add to his souvenir collection and thus once again recklessly endangered men whose lives he had a legal and moral obligation to protect. As Eric described how Dave—somehow altered after the first explosion—swung the beads at Walt, Nate fought the urge to pull the beads out of the hazmat bag Kocher still held, and shove them down his counterpart's throat.

"He got good fucking effect on target, for once," said Eric viciously. "He hit Hasser dead across the face, and if Hasser hadn't fallen down on top of him, I would have shot him to stop him, because he was going for me next. I could see it in his fucking eyes."

Nate ignored the threat to an officer's life—he would have done the same thing, and Dave had, at the very least, been guilty of conduct unbecoming. At the very worst, he was possessed, something that Nate was giving more credence to, as Dave started muttering again, pulling at the plastic cuffs Nate had put on him after Eric turned him over.

"I took a risk, sir, and operated on the assumption that the beads had to touch bare flesh to have their desired effect," Kocher continued, ignoring his CO's rambling. At least he was well-practiced in that, Nate thought, fighting back an involuntary grin. Another shock reaction, but he didn't have the luxury of giving into his crazy thoughts right now. He nodded instead, and Eric went on. "I was wearing my gloves and I used one of our haz-mat bags to neutralize the threat. I ascertained that Colbert and Hasser were still alive but wounded with unknown injuries and made the call to return to base. We lacked the proper equipment to secure them to the hoods of the victors so we loaded them inside—easier said than done, because Colbert is a big motherfucker—and returned to base as quickly as possible."

"Captain McGraw came with you willingly?" Nate asked.

"Fuck, we couldn't have left him there if we wanted to," said Ray. "He climbed right back into his seat like fuck all had happened, even put back on his headset and muttered that creepy ass shit into it for the entire fucking time it took to get back here."

Dave glared at Ray like he understood him perfectly and muttered something.

"It's Greek," said Nate, realization dawning over him. "Classic Greek, like it would have been spoken when Alexander the Great invaded Persia."

Ray snorted. "For once, having a liberal Ivy League dicksuck for a CO is going to work to our advantage. The boys back home are never going to fucking believe me. Uh, with all due respect, sir."

Nate ignored Ray. "Tell me exactly what you want," he said to Dave, pulling out his notepad and pencil. He didn't bother to try to find the words in Greek, since Dave clearly still understood English.

" Το Dahag, που είναι μεγάλο και ισχυρό, έχει ακούσει την αίτησή μας, και χορηγεί την εύνοια και την προστασία της Περσίας. Η γλώσσα και το μυαλό του whomsoever εισάγουν αυτό το έδαφος ισχύον είναι αναθεματισμένες και πρέπει στη συνέχεια να αναγκαστούν για να κάνουν τη δήλωση της πληγής που έχει μειωθεί επάνω σε σας. Η πληγή είναι δεσμευτική επάνω σε όλους που αγγίζουν αυτήν που δεν είναι δικοί τους. Εκείνοι που είναι αναθεματισμένοι πρέπει να συμμετέχουν στην πράξη του σοδομισμού, ή θα χαθούν πριν από τα σύνολα ήλιων. Μόνο που και είναι αναθεματισμένος και καθαρός της αφής του σοδομιστή μπορεί να σπάσει την πληγή, και αυτός πρέπει να δώσει της αγνότητάς του στη θυσία σε Dahag. Πολύ ζωντανό Dahag." Dave spoke slowly, with great zeal, and his eyes were cruel and—something else. Lascivious, almost lustful. It made Nate shudder to look at him for too long.

"Did you follow any of that, sir?" Person asked doubtfully. "Because somebody has to say it, and it might as well be me: it was all Greek to me, sir."

Nate looked down at his notes, dread welling. This wasn't happening. "Again, slower."

Dave repeated everything again, and again, until Nate was sure he had every word down. He repeated it back to Dave, his tongue tripping over the language he'd only spoken for a few brief weeks on a summer dig after his freshman year and Dave nodded at him when he was finished, looking completely self-satisfied. Nate wanted to wipe that smirk off his face with his side-arm.

A crowd had grown around them as Dave had recited his curse over and over, and Nate needed to deal with that, first. This had to be dealt with carefully, and with the utmost discretion, or they were all finished, one way or another. He glared at the troops surrounding them. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? This isn't a side-show for your amusement. There are wounded Marines here and we're fucking sitting ducks. If you aren't a TL or weren't out with the patrol tonight, you should be securing our perimeter, right the fuck now."

Within a minute only those who he had specified were around him. He looked the TLs over sharply. Seeing their fellow Marines, especially Brad, lying on that tarp, deathly pale, had to be fucking with morale. He needed to fix that, first.

"Gentleman, I want you know that I appreciate how dire this situation seems," he said carefully, aware of the fact that he was crafting the party line—this would go down as the historical truth, whatever else might happen. "I know you're all concerned about Colbert and Hasser, and about Captain McGraw. But the fact is that our teams made it through that ambush because of their skill and determination, and I've never been more proud to be a Recon Marine. While I am assured that Hasser and Colbert just need some rest, Captain McGraw's combat stress reaction is a more serious matter, but I trust you to show him compassion and respect, and to exercise discretion." Dave muttered darkly at that, but Nate ignored him. Not only was that getting old, if he was right, this time tomorrow Captain America would be nothing more than a bad memory.

"It looks like we're not going anywhere any time soon, and I want you to take this opportunity to rest your teams up. We'll go down to fifty per cent watch, on a four hour rotation, and if you or your Marines aren't on watch, I want you to do your best to get some sleep. Poke, I want to keep Person under Doc's supervision, but Trombley's joining your team until further notice. Eric, likewise, I want you to stay here, but your team is going to join Bravo Two Three. Rudy, you take Christeson and Stafford."

He looked up at the sky, lightening into shades of pink and yellow as the sun rose. Twelve hours until the sun set again, and by then it would all be resolved, one way or another. "Let's meet up again at 1900 hours." He paused, taking a moment to look each TL in the eye. "Take care of your Marines, and take care of each other. That's all I ask, and I couldn't ask it of better men. Dismissed."

*

_Dahag, who is great and powerful, has heard our petition, and he grants Persia favor and protection. The tongue and mind of whomsoever enters this land in force is cursed and in turn must be compelled to make pronouncement of the curse that has fallen upon you. The curse is binding upon all who touch that which is not theirs. Those who are cursed must engage in the act of sodomy, or they will perish before the sun sets. Only he who is both cursed and pure of the touch of the sodomite may break the curse, and he must give of his purity in sacrifice to Dahag. Long live Dahag._

Nate stopped reading and looked up from his notepad. "That's the best I can," he said. "My Greek is rusty, but I'm pretty sure I got all the important details."

"Who the fuck is Dahag?" Mike asked, clearly stalling to give them all a moment for the intel to sink in.

"He was a Persian demon, also known as Vahhak," said Ray. "He had three mouths, three heads, and six eyes, and was thought to be half snake, or maybe dragon. Definitely some kind of bad-ass serpent. And clearly he had more juice than anybody has given him credit for in the last fifteen hundred years." He rolled his eyes when they all stared at him in surprise. "What the fuck ever, dudes. You think the LT is the only person in this platoon who knows how to read? And just as an aside, does anybody else think it's a bad idea for there to be a member of the Western media—or, really, any media at all—to be present while we discuss ancient curses and ass-fucking?"

Rolling Stone held up his hands. "No pen, no notebook, and my tape recorder is turned off. I'm not going to write about any of this—I'd be laughed out of every decent press room in the world."

"Not to mention that they sure as hell wouldn't let you embed for the next invasion," Ray smirked. "So, what, LT? You think this was some kind of curse used as a defense when Alexander the Great invaded Mesopotamia?"

It never paid to underestimate Ray Person. "Probably," said Nate. "Not that the history alters our current reality, but it's fascinating that it's been passed down all this time. I wonder how many times it's been used effectively?"

"This is fucking fascinating," said Doc. "Really. Everybody, pull your fucking heads out of your asses. There are two men lying in those tents, dying. So somebody step up to the fucking plate here and go save their lives."

Dave muttered, too low for Nate to hear, but it sounded a lot like approval.

"Ray's going to fuck Walt," said Nate, amazed at how matter-of-fact he sounded. He was an officer in the United States Marine Corps and he was deliberately setting up four of his men to break their code. It was to save lives, though, and that above all was paramount. Godfather probably wouldn't agree, but fuck him. He was the one who'd left Bravo vulnerable enough to be caught in this situation in the first place. "Given the nature of their relationship, it's the only thing to do."

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," Ray said. "Hasser and I are just good buddies, common souls who share a mutual understanding of the world. I'm flattered that you think he won't mind me reaming his ass, but I want you to know there is no reason that I should do it, as opposed to Kocher or Doc. We're all friends here." His smile was bright and patently false.

Nate fucking hated DADT, hated listening to one of his men deny the true nature of a relationship that had withstood the pressures of mandatory heterosexuality, two Southern families at odds with the life choices their sons had made, and all the hypermasculine bullshit that went with being a Recon Marine. "Duly noted, Corporal Person. My decision to have you fuck Corporal Hasser is based purely on my own whimsy. If there were going to be an official record of this colossal fuck-up, that's what it would reflect. All right?"

"Thank you, sir. So am I to understand, sir, that you are in fact ordering me to fuck Corporal Hasser?" Butter wouldn't have melted in Ray's mouth at that moment.

Wynn grinned. "There ain't a situation out there that you can't exploit, Ray."

"Fuck, Gunny, I gotta have something to say when Walt comes to with my giant cock in his ass."

Kocher rolled his eyes. "First thing Hasser is going to do is swat at the tiny fly bothering him."

Nate was glad that spirits had lifted since he'd decoded the curse; it was a sign they believed they were going to get through this. "Moving on. Mike, Eric, I'm going to leave it up to you to decide who takes Colbert. I know that you're both married, and I understand if you can't violate the sanctity of your vows. I'd prefer that Doc stay available to tend to both the men as they regain consciousness, but if that's the option we have to go with, so be it." He stopped talking, conscious of how the entire group, including Reporter, was staring at him as though he had two heads. "Somebody has to do it," he said defensively.

"Oh my fucking God, you are not that clueless, are you?" Ray asked. "Or is this nobility we're witnessing? It's touching, sir, but it's such utter bullshit."

"They're all his friends," Nate said. "I know Brad can be difficult, but he'd understand that there was no choice, that somebody had to fuck him or he'd die."

"He doesn't know," said Mike, sounding stunned.

"Oh, he knows," said Ray. "He's just playing the coquette because he thinks we don't know."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Nate snapped. "Does Brad have an asshole made of titanium? Is he utterly impenetrable in all ways? Shouldn't that have been in his file?" Fuck, they didn't have time for this shit. The curse said they had until sunset, but they were still at war and the bad guys didn't know about their timeline—they could be ambushed at any minute, or the battalion could unfuck their comms and order them Oscar Mike. This had to happen now.

Ray snickered. "As awesome as it is to know that you've read as many comic books as the average grunt, sir, the problem is not with Brad's incredibly resistant asshole. What the rest of these pussies are too chicken shit to tell you is that if Brad wakes up and finds out that you could have fucked him and didn't, he will go into an Iceman funk of such epic proportions that the time Trombley shot the kids will look like a bad hair day. He'll make hell freeze over, sir."

"I'm his CO," said Nate, a bit desperately. "I can't violate his trust like that."

"If I may speak frankly, sir, I think Brad would view it as a violation of the trust he has in you if you hid behind your brass and sent one of us in there to fuck him," said Doc.

Eric nodded. "We're not blind, sir. You could have faked it until we got back home and you got yourself transferred to a different unit, but this changes whatever timeline you might think you're on. You and Colbert have something going, and it's time to call a spade a spade."

Nate looked at his Gunny, the voice of sanity he'd come to rely on in this clusterfuck of a war. But Mike was grinning at him knowingly. "Time to man up, Nate," he drawled. "You ain't never let us down, don't start by breakin' Brad's heart."

*

Brad was in one of the tents set up between the victors parked in the middle of the encampment. Doc and Mike had carried him in there on a stretcher, and placed him so that he was lying on his front, his head cradled on his forearms as though he were just taking a nap, not lying in a curse-induced coma. Doc had stripped him of his MOPP suit while he was examining him, and Brad lay on a blanket, clad only in a t-shirt and skivvies. Even without all his gear, he looked huge to Nate, his long limbs somehow still golden brown, as if the California sun found him wherever he went.

Nate knelt down beside Brad, turning the tube of cocoa butter Doc had handed him before he'd gone into Brad's tent. "No condoms," he said. "They didn't use them eighteen hundred years ago, and we aren't going to fuck with this curse. And no lube, for the same reason. I got this shit from Rudy, it's all natural. I told him we were using it to treat a rash. Use lots of it, both on yourself and on Brad." Nate nodded and Doc looked at him closely. "You know what you're doing in there, sir, don't you?"

Doc's question was more suggestive than interrogative and Nate glared at him. Doc laughed. "I thought so, sir. Remember, you might be an old hand at this, but even if Brad isn't sporting his ass cherry, it's still probably been a while since he's been fucked. Go easy on him."

Now, looking at Brad lying so still and vulnerable, what Nate was about to do seemed even more unconscionable. They might have been moving toward this, their banter more suggestive, the looks they shared more intense, but they'd never kissed. In fact, they'd barely touched. They shared the same space easily, with the promise of more lingering between them, but it wasn't supposed to be like this, Nate taking Brad in a way that was tantamount to rape.

That train of thought wasn't going to get him anywhere, and he pushed it away, focusing instead on the golden hair on the back of Brad's neck. He traced a finger over the line of his spine and then bent down to kiss it, tonguing down it until he reached the neck of Brad's t-shirt, and kissed the knob of Brad's spine.

How many nights had he lain in his grave and imagined having full access to Brad's body, to be able to lay his hands and mouth where he pleased, to taste the textured skin of the tattoo, to bite down deeply in the hollow where Brad's back met his ass? For more than half a year now, Brad had been his prime jerk-off fantasy, but in his combat jacks, Brad had always been an active participant, moving under Nate's hands, muttering filthy promises as Nate sucked and lit and bit.

He didn't have hours, he reminded himself. The goal here was to get in and get out, before any more shit flew their way and he was trying to fuck Brad in the back of his truck with Stafford and Christeson offering commentary, hip-hop style, on his technique.

His Marines certainly didn't seem to think this was his only shot at Brad, and Nate had always been inclined to trust in their opinion, especially Ray's, with his uncanny perception about what was going on around him that he masked with babble and bullshit. Brad could even up the score next time, he told himself as he pushed up Brad's t-shirt, finally getting his mouth on that inked skin. He only let himself mouth it for a minute before moving down again, pushing Brad's underwear down over his ass.

The only way this was going to work well was for Brad to be completely naked from the waist down, to give Nate enough room to maneuver, so he scooted back and pulled the black briefs off Brad completely. He spread Brad's legs, too, making room for himself to kneel between them, and then just took a moment to take in the sight before him.

Brad looked decadent, wanton, his t-shirt riding up over his hips, the bright swathe of technicolor across his lower back showing below it, his ass bare, his legs parted just enough for Nate to see between them. Brad's hole looked soft and tight, too small to take Nate's cock, though Nate knew how it would stretch and open, had fucked and been fucked enough to know how good Brad would feel around him. Brad's cock lay under him, but Nate could just see the stretch of his perineum, the globes of his testicles peeking out, that same golden hair that Brad had everywhere.

He was beautiful, and Nate found himself torn between lust and regret. There would be time enough for regret after, if this fucked everything building between them. He pushed the feeling away and gave himself over to lust.

Common sense dictated that he should just unzip his cammies and pull out his cock—otherwise he could end up bare-ass naked in front of the entire company if there were an emergency. He didn't care, though, he wanted to feel Brad against him, wanted this to be more than a clinical act. He wasn't sure Brad would even remember any of this, but Nate would, and he wanted one good memory out of this, something to hold on to if everything else fell apart.

He compromised, pulling his pants and shorts down to his ankles. He was already hard and aching, had been since he'd come into the tent and seen Brad laid out for him. He knelt between Brad's legs, stroking his cock, dragging his finger through the pre-come at the crown. It wouldn't be enough to fuck Brad with, but Nate rubbed it over his hole anyway, pushing it in a little.

Nothing happened. He was hoping that might have been enough to satisfy the curse, but apparently Dahag wanted his full pound of flesh. So to speak. Nate rolled his eyes at himself and reached for the tube of cocoa butter. He slicked himself up and then spread it liberally on his fingers.

Nate pushed a finger into Brad as slowly as he could. Pulling it out, he covered it with lotion again, glad for its oil base. He wanted Brad's ass as wet and open as possible, the way his last girlfriend's pussy would spread for him when he ate her out. If he had enough time, and if Brad had showered any time in the last three weeks, Nate would have rimmed him. That would do it—Brad's asshole would open like a flower around his tongue. Nate would bite and suck at the rim of his ass, getting spit everywhere, make Brad so wet that Nate could slid in without lotion, without even prepping him.

Marines made do. Nate slicked up two fingers now, crooking them upwards when he pushed them inside Brad. There was the chance that Brad could feel everything Nate was doing to him—who the fuck knew how ancient curses worked—and Nate wanted Brad to feel so good. It was possible that he did, because Brad's hole clenched around his fingers when he slowly fucked them in and out.

He repeated the process with three fingers, his heart stuttering when Brad's hips rose up a little to meet his touch. There was no sign that Brad was any closer to conscious than he had been an hour ago, though, so Nate scissored his fingers, spreading them wide inside Brad, before pulling them out for the last time.

There was no such thing as too much lube—the first lesson every man learned before he fucked ass for the first time—and he rubbed more lotion over his cock before lining it up with Brad's hole, which no longer looked virginal, but was red and shiny with oil, ready for him. He moved closer as he fucked into Brad, draping himself over his prone body. He kissed the back of Brad's neck when he slid in all the way, his balls bumping up against Brad's ass.

He'd been worried that Brad would be limp, that Nate would feel like he did when he fucked girls who were in it only to say they'd done it with a Marine officer or an Ivy League guy or somebody with green eyes—Nate had had his fair share of unpleasant sexual experiences. But it was like Brad's body was waking up around him, and Nate didn't feel alone as much as he did lonely. He'd imagined this with Brad saying filthy things as he arched up into Nate's touch, with kisses and bites shared between them.

When he pulled Brad's hips up, he found that Brad's cock was hard, and once again his heart jumped. He couldn't hold Brad up like that and stroke him off, but he shifted his angle so that every stroke hit Brad's prostate, and he thrust in harder and deeper, moaning with the effort.

He didn't try to hold back his release, but fucked into Brad without restraint, biting at Brad's shoulder—there'd be no denying something had happened if he left marks, but he didn't give a fuck, wanted to leave bruises and bite marks, wanted to claim Brad as his. His orgasm washed over him like absolution, and he shook with it, giving more and more of himself to Brad until there was nothing left, and he collapsed onto Brad's back, burying his head into the crook of Brad's neck.

*

Brad couldn't remember the last time he felt this good. In fact, it was entirely possible that he never felt this good. His body was loose and relaxed, pleasure humming through it; his mind free and easy, like he caught the goddamn perfect wave and was balanced on its crest, riding it all the way to shore.

He lay as still as he could, hoping to prolong the feeling of bliss, but it gradually receded, mellowing out into a low hum buzzing down his spine. As he floated to the top of consciousness, he was aware that the feeling wasn't just the after-effects of a good dream, that he might be feeling this way because Nate was on top of him, cock pressing into his ass, breath heavy against his neck.

Well. This was an interesting development. Brad quickly reviewed the sit-rep and came to the obvious conclusion: "Let me guess: You preferred the Anne Rice version of Sleeping Beauty to the Disney version." His voice felt rough, unused, and he cleared his throat. "That's shocking, sir, you seem like such a nice young man."

Nate tensed and then laughed, brushing a kiss into his neck. "I should have known that even an ancient curse couldn't knock you off your game for very long." He sounded amused. "You are the Iceman, after all."

"We were cursed?" Brad closed his eyes and thought a minute. Captain America. An old witch by the side of the road. Glowing prayer beads. Fuck, he had been _cursed_. "This isn't a war, it's a fucking magical sideshow. Jesus Christ, next thing you know I'm going to be waving a wand and directing mops and buckets to attack Baghdad. What the fuck kind of war is this? This kind of shit never happened in Afghanistan."

Nate laughed again, a happier sound than Brad had ever heard from him. "This kind of shit never happened in Afghanistan, either," he said, rubbing his dick into the crease of Brad's ass.

Brad lifted himself up onto his hands and, in a quick move, flipped them over so that he was on top of Nate, who was smiling up at him. "You seem remarkably pleased with this turn of events, sir. I have to say I'm surprised: I would have thought that you'd be in somewhat of a moral quandary, having relieved me of my gay ass cherry under circumstances that definitely raises questions about my consensual participation."

Nate leaned in and licked at his lips, and Brad opened his mouth to the kiss. "I think that speaks nicely to the issue of your consent," Nate said, pulling away after a minute. "I'm very pleased by the turn of events, as matter of fact. Just listen for a minute."

Brad did, but all he could hear was Person crowing about something, Walt's lower tones hushing him, and beyond that, Kocher fighting with Captain America. It seemed the officer felt that Kocher had stolen his latest acquisition. "It sounds like the same old shit, Nate."

Nate kissed him again. "Exactly."

Brad nodded. "If I'm very quiet, do you think that they'll think there's more curse-breaking to be done, and leave us the fuck alone long enough for me to repay you the favour of saving my life?"

"I am assured of that, Sergeant." Nate smirked at him and handed him a tube of cocoa butter. "It's not LSA, but it gets the job done."

Brad took it from him. "I could kiss you, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I played fast and easy with Persian mythology and Greek history in this story, and most of the mythology came from the Wikipedia entry on [Zahhak](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zahhak). The title was also inspired by a line in that entry.
> 
> 2\. This story was also inspired by the Get Some prompt 'Bravo Two: prayer beads (the marines liked to collect them...) What if someone had decided to incapacitate the battalion by planting a few cursed love beads.'
> 
> 3\. Signe, who rocks my world, did the research behind the text of the curse.
> 
> 4\. The translation from English to Greek is courtesy of Yahoo's Babelfish.


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